


The Last Day Of Summer

by FinalFallenFantasy



Category: X-Men Evolution
Genre: It's highly descriptive prose, M/M, No Plot, No Porn, Sexual Themes, but it's definitely sex, lake, maybe it's poetry, poetry?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 08:01:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinalFallenFantasy/pseuds/FinalFallenFantasy
Summary: The air was still.
Relationships: Toad & Kurt Wagner, Toad/Kurt Wagner
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	The Last Day Of Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Aw hell, y'all, I dunno where this came from but here it is anyway ¯\\_ (ツ)_/¯
> 
> I promise you I am working on the next chapter of Community Gardens, I just heard a song ('She' by Dodie if you must know) and this got stuck in my head.

The air was still. It was hot and dry and the flies buzzed in interrupted bursts, landing on abandoned, congealing food left to grow curdled and warm in the sun; their small hands rubbed together greedily as they feasted on the remnants thrown aside in the grass and left uneaten and ignored on the sandy blanket.

Bees filled the hazy air with their lazy hum, bumbling from flower to flower on the breeze like friendly porters in smart, striped yellow. The air was still. An intimation of a breeze, coalescing into a sigh like the last breath before sleep, then nothing.

It was late summer, the last great gasp of heat before the outpouring of the final summer storm charged in like an angry harbinger of autumn, electric and raging against the dying of the year, stalking on legs of lightning and casting about with great thunderclaps, looking for someone to blame.

The air was still.

Near the forsaken picnic, the cloudy water of the lake rippled under the feet of the pond skaters, disturbed by the strange business of fish below. Somewhere, a duck startled. Birds sang in the trees, but none too near. The air was still, and yet full of music. The fluting cry of a hawk circling far above set down a momentary, heavy silence. Freeze. Be still. Pray.

The danger passed. The music began again, the myriad voices of birds chorusing in farewell to the summer heat. Clouds bloomed like bruises on the horizon. The storm would come soon. But not yet. For now, the air was still.

Still, except for the song, except for the quiet, tender sounds in the grass, stifled and half-silenced by soft hands and warm, wet mouths. The discreet drag of wet fur on moist flesh, the excruciating pleasure of a tongue curling, of a moan bitten back by a careful throat long-used to silence. These lovers know what it is to hide. Dark blue and brown hair, long and tangled with grass seeds and chaff, smelling of lake water. The sensitive crimes committed only under cover of the blessed word ‘clandestine’.

The air was still. Soft murmurs, aching gasps, mumbled names and half-voiced refrains of praise and adoration, of worship. A long, lithe body tangled with another, their legs tied up in knots, tied up in love, there in the grass; grit and dust and the mysterious specklings of pondweed sticking to damp, mottled skin; burrs lodging irretrievably in blue fur. The agonising caress of a webbed hand, a green tongue. The guttural pleasure of sharp teeth breaking skin, of a strong tail reaching, finding, _grasping_. A flexible spine arched in ecstasy. Two.

The muffled moan into the tender skin of a shoulder, the unextinguished cry that broke out into the still air, startling the quiet into shattering and fleeing. The slow crescendo of voices, entwined and harmonising not in melody but in _feeling_ , in desire. In love. The crashing peak, the crushing, soaring, devastating high. That liquid moment, frozen in time, endless and infinite and fleeting and gone.

Harsh, panting breaths. Mumbled words, weary laughter. The soft flop of a body into waiting, welcoming arms. The hot sun beating down. Quiet murmurs, the tangling of strange hands into something beautiful and close and tender and _safe_.

That was then, when the air was still. The grumbled complaints, the click of nails picking at foxtails embedded in unwitting fur. The squeaking pain of sunburn on careless skin.

Now the sky grows dim, the air quieter now without those tender sounds, but no longer still. Where the blanket, where the lovers, flattened grass. Where the pond skaters, the ripples. Where the clear blue sky, the desultory settlement of twilight.

The air is no longer still. The patient clouds that gathered to listen, to watch the last halcyon day before the leaves wither are now here, stalking across the sky on their legs of lightning.


End file.
